


In Search of Oblivion

by KilLinggames



Series: Oblivion [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Hook, Angst, BDSM, Blindness, Bondage, Bottom Matt Murdock, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Don't Try This At Home, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Flogging, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, M/M, Masochism, Minor Character Death, NOT Dubcon, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Painplay, RACK - Freeform, Riding Crop, Self-Loathing, Sensory Deprivation, Subspace, emotional masochism, explicit - Freeform, ropes, top Frank Castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilLinggames/pseuds/KilLinggames
Summary: Occasionally, the filth the Devil faces every day gets to be overwhelming.Then a girl dies, and it's just one thing too far.Matt needs some "Special Lovin'" from the resident Punisher to set his head straight.WARNING: READ ALL THE TAGS. (Might add more in future)
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Series: Oblivion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575523
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	In Search of Oblivion

Sometimes, Matt just needs to… _stop._ His burdens build and build. It feels like drowning. He needs to... not think for a while, that's all. Really.

* * *

It's the middle of December and snow was thick on the ground. His suit really wasn’t equipped for this but he makes do. All he needs to do is keep moving, keep running. Parkour does work up a sweat after all. But still, maybe he should ask Melvin if he can add some type of insulation or something.

That’s when he heard it, the screaming.

It's Turk again. Well, if Matt had to say one nice thing about the guy; he sure is persistent. He’s lost count of how many times him or Luke’s sent him to jail. By all accounts, Turk was just a low-level dealer. But he deals in all kinds of shit. Turk was an opportunist, and he didn’t care where that opportunity came from. He was devious, but not quite ambitious enough or courageous enough to start his own shit. A scavenger of sorts.

Tonight, he's dealing in lost girls again. The Devil decides that this time, perhaps Turk would like a more permanent lesson. Or perhaps a lengthier one. Matt itches under his skin. He needs… _something._ Sometimes, torture soothes the itch. He’s not proud of that fact but there it is. Besides, Turk deserves it. But he can't decide which type of hurt sounds more appealing at the moment. There'll be time for that later.

There are two more thugs aside from Turk, yelling at the girls. _Oh God,_ they sound like they're barely 16. The Devil can smell their fear, bitter and acrid in the night. He speaks a small, silent prayer for them. Turk definitely deserves some personal attention.

"Yeah, keep on moving bitch. Move!!! Don’t make me use this,” Matt calls him thug 1 in his head. He smells of axe body spray over unwashed leather. Matt hears the oddly blunt plastic sound of fingernails on the barrel of a gun, “I’m not supposed to damage the merchandise, but the boss man has assured me that just one or two blown kneecaps’ll be alright. There are guys who are into that you know. Cripples."

The girls whimper in fear and move faster. One girl seems to hesitate, as if undecided whether she should try to run instead, but her friend pulls her back. Smart girl. The Devil can't see it, but he can practically feel the smugness wafting off of thug 1. On his body, on his clothes. Turk doesn't get to be last after all.

A baton seems to come out of nowhere, knocking nameless thug number 2 right out. The Devil doesn’t have a personal vendetta against him. He gets the easy way out. Then he's on Turk, right fist jabbing out to punch the lowlife across the face, breaking his nose. He drops low, leg kicking out to swipe Turk’s knees out from under him. Turk goes down hard, groaning and trying to slow the flow of blood from his nose.

The Devil leaves him on the floor, winded but not unconscious. Turk’s a coward, he’ll stay put until he’s ready for him. He turns towards the last guy, only to get momentarily disoriented by the shrill ringing of a gunshot.

No pain blooms anywhere on his body. But he does hear the laboured breathing coming from one of the girls –the one who restrained her friend. The bullet went right through one lung. She's already beginning to choke on her own blood. It'll be a painful death, but at least not a slow one. Matt wishes he could go to her right now, but he has to take care of thug 1 first.

“Call the police!” He yells at the girls, throwing over one of his burner phones to the dying girl’s friend.

Everything goes really fast after that. The lowlife’s shouting words and raising his gun but nothing really registers. All Matt knows is red. All the world is red. One limb. Two limbs. Three limbs. Four. Face. Chest.

Turk's gotten to his feet and tried to run, picking up his courage after all, spooked by the extra level of violence the Devil’s dishing out tonight. The Devil rears his head, picks up the asshole's gun. He doesn’t believe in guns. He hates them. But the world is a blur right now. A bone-deep sense of numbness. All red. One pop. Two pops. Turk will live, but he'll never walk again. Thug 1 will live, but he might never wake.

The girl’s lying in her friend’s arms, already gone.

* * *

"Jesus, Red. I almost fucking shot you."

A beat of silence, only pierced by the sound of Matt's harsh breathing.

Frank knows something must be wrong when Matt didn't immediately call him out for speaking the Lord's name in vain. In fact, Matt's not saying anything, or doing anything at all. He’s just standing there, breath harsh and loud within the soundproofed walls of the Punisher’s safehouse.

Frank approaches him slowly, as if trying to calm down a frightened animal.

"Matt. Matty baby, come on what's wrong."

Matt feels arms encircle him, and only then realizes where he was. His senses slowly come back. He's at Frank's latest safehouse. He doesn’t really remember how he got here.

He lets out a choked sob.

"Frank. Frank oh god please. Please," he's sobbing fully now. Big, fat, shameless tears, "I can't. FUCK!!!!" The rage comes back as quickly as the tears. And he's just so tired, so fucking tired of everything. He tries, _so hard. Every. Single. Night._ And it just... isn't enough. He's had nightmares about the lives he couldn’t save and tonight it's just... one too many. It feels like so much rage and apathy and frustration and depression and listlessness; all at once. He doesn't know what. Too much and he lets go of his normal careful control of his senses and suddenly everything's too loud and the suit is too rough on his skin. He can taste Frank and blood and gutter waste on his tongue, in his nose. The diseased heartbeat of Hell’s Kitchen reverberating through his chest and his bones. Mocking him. _You’re so weak,_ it laughs. _I beat you,_ it crows in triumph.

“It was my fault. My fault. I should’ve… I should’ve taken care of-of the gun. First. A girl. She died. She died because I wanted-wanted to make him suffer. Wanted to save him for last.” Matt stutters the words amidst hitched breaths and sobs. It’s his fault. He let his bloodlust overtake him. And now a girl’s gone and it’s all his _fault._

Matt lifts his right fist, pounds it against himself. His shoulder, jaw, arms. Anywhere he can reach. But it’s not enough. He needs to be punished. But it’s not enough. _He’s_ not enough.

The arms around him tighten. He feels fingers become a vice grip on his throat.

The lights go out.

* * *

Matt awakes with a jolt. And promptly chokes. He's thrown into a coughing fit as the rope around his throat digs abruptly into his trachea. He feels full. There's something inside him that jerks every time he moves.

It's then that he realizes the position he's in. Someone's put some noise-cancelling headphones on him, so all he hears is the loud thundering of his heart and his own harsh breathing. His throat is dry from breathing through his mouth. There’s cotton up his nose, doused in something pungent. That close, he doesn’t know what it actually smells like. It’s too strong and just makes him dizzy. The room around him is blurry. His arms are tied behind his back, palms hugging his elbows. He's on his knees and movement doesn’t seem possible. They're tied to his elbows, leaving Matt lying face down with his ass spread wide and exposed. There’s something inside him. He's spread open and there's something inside him and he doesn’t know where he is.

He tries to take stock of his surroundings. His face and chest and knees are pressed against rough fabric. It’s not enough to hurt, but far from comfortable. It’s too sturdy to be a bed, too soft to be the floor. A futon maybe? The air is cool, but not freezing. So, at least he’s not outside. Try as he might though, he can’t parse anything else from his surroundings. Whoever did this to him really knew what they were doing.

Desperate now, he begins to struggle in earnest, the thing in his ass jogging his insides all the while. He's going to hurt himself if this keeps going on. The ropes are tied expertly. There is nowhere to go, no way to release himself without help.

A hand grabs at his hair and jerks his head up sharply, allowing some slack on the thing in his ass. It hurts and he's terrified. Where am I? Where...

And then the hand turns soft, petting his hair gently three times. All the tension goes out of his muscles and Matt goes boneless.

It's Frank. Of course it is. It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything will be fine.

But the single moment of relief leaves as soon as it arrives. Matt's muscles tense up again, albeit for an entirely different reason this time. He knows the Punisher's about to do what he does best, and he can't wait. He feels heat pooling low in his gut; the anticipation is killing him.

"Well then? Get on with it, punisher."

The slap to his face was entirely expected. Matt gasps anyway.

The hands pull at his hair again, and the cotton pads are pulled out of his nose. He feels Frank fit something around his head.

"Open your mouth, you pathetic little freak." Matt's half hard already. The noise-cancelling headphones mess with his hearing enough that he can't get an idea of the room. He's blind in reality and in practice now, just like any other blind man. But Frank's close, and the things aren’t quite effective enough to block out his voice.

Matt wiggled his ass in the air invitingly, almost involuntarily. His jaw opens wide, hoping for a taste of Frank's cock. Frank slaps his dick in Matt's face instead. Matt lolls his tongue out, but Franks careful and it comes nowhere near.

Matt knows Frank won't. He's gotta earn it first. Instead, Frank inserts their tiny pecker dildo gag into his mouth and tightens the straps. Matt’s skin heats up with arousal, hairs standing on end. He’s ready, and he _wants._

Abruptly his mind twists, limbs going boneless. The self-loathing comes in like an all-encompassing tide. What kind of sick fuck is he? To want this so much. To ache to be fucked in all his holes. Used for Frank's pleasure. Frank won't take it easy on him today and he knows it. It'll hurt in all the right ways. In all the wrong ways. And Matt wants. He wants it so bad. This is what he deserves. A little taste of hell on Earth and he wants it. He's sick. And weak. A failure. A sick, weak, pathetic freak and he deserves it.

He hopes Frank destroys him. He hopes it will burn. He feels all his nerve endings tingle in anticipation of what's to come.

Frank's never disappointed him before.

 _Fire._ It _burns_. Oh _God._ Matt gets a glimpse of oblivion. A preview of what’s to come. But it only lasts a moment; less than a second. And Matt instantly needs more. Frank had taken a candle, and it’s apparently been melting for a while now. The wax poured down onto his back in a single cascade and lit him on fire and it was so, so good.

Next came the flogger. It almost feels disappointing. Frank takes up a slow, steady pace. It’s not enough, but Matt knows it’s just the beginning. The flogger hits his lower back, his ass, his feet. Never, never, his hands. Frank’s aim is impeccable as usual. The blows come from all directions and Matt can’t anticipate the next one because although he can still feel the air movement, without sound it isn’t enough to pinpoint anything. It doesn’t really hurt yet, more like a light pat. Frank’s warming him up. How sweet.

Frank’s got a steady rhythm, slowly swinging harder and harder. And then suddenly, _SMACK._ And this one hurts, really hurts. Matt lets out a cry that turns into a moan almost immediately. It’s not enough to really overwhelm him, but it’s a shock all the same after the almost loving treatment.

Then the heavy smacks begin in earnest, Matt jerking against the rope around his throat. The thing in his ass—he knows now it must be an anal hook and when the fuck did Frank get something like that—digs into him more with every jerk of his body. It’s unyielding, and he tries to move less, afraid of what kind of damage something like that could do to him if he jerks too hard. He starts to feel lightheaded and doesn’t know whether it’s from the endorphins or the lack of oxygen reaching his brain. It doesn’t matter. Frank will take care of him. He doesn’t deserve it, weak pathetic thing that he is. But Frank does what he wants.

“God, you look so good like this, Red. All tied up, helpless, ready for me to use.” A light tap on his balls that hurt like a bitch nonetheless, “And I can see how much you love it. You’re sick, sick in the head and look at you.” Frank’s stopped delivering the smacks. His hand is on Matt’s ass, rubbing roughly, “You’re so hard already. Bet you’d get this hard for anyone. Such a fucking whore. Such a gorgeous fucking whore. That’s all you’re good for, right? To be used, to hurt?” His fingers dig into the meat of Matt’s inflamed ass cheek, and Matt cries out in pain. It’s going to leave bruises tomorrow. “Maybe next time I’ll get you a whole audience. Show’em how good you are for me. Show them how pathetic you are, just lying there and taking whatever I decide to give you. Like a dog begging for scraps.” Matt lets out another whorish sound at that. Frank always did have a way with words. A glob of spit hits his face, and he feels a wave of humiliation and pleasurable heat roll over his entire body.

Frank’s hand moves away from him, and for a few moments there is nothing. This can’t be it right? No, of course not. Right?

A stripe of excruciating heat blooms on his ass. Matt jerks against his bonds again. His brain whites out for a millisecond. Frank’s back, and he’s brought out the riding crop. Matt hates and loves it in equal measure. This is when the fun really starts, he thinks.

“Playtime’s over Red. You’re gonna really feel this now.” Frank chuckles, and Matt can hear the sound of him slapping the crop against his palm to make a point. Another hot stripe against his ass. And another, and another. They’re all around the same place. They break the skin, not enough to bleed, but enough to leave deep welts. The world is fire, and Matt is present in his skin like he’s never been able to at any other time. The world is nothing, nothing, nothing but pain. It is overwhelming, and it is glorious.

Matt doesn’t know how long it lasts, but suddenly his head is being pulled back again by his neck. He feels the anal hook being removed from his ass.

“Oh well would you look at that,” Frank slaps his tender whole several times in quick succession. Matt cries out, his dick twitching and leaking precum, “So pretty.” Frank shoves a few fingers roughly into Matt, dry. It hurts, but it’s so hot and the pain mixes with the pleasure and it’s all he deserves. To be violated. Spread open to be used. His asshole twitches, tightening itself around Frank’s fingers.

“Tsk tsk, patience little whore.” Frank removes his fingers and slaps his asshole several more times, until Matt’s writhing in his remaining bonds, body reflexively trying to get away even if Matt himself doesn’t want it to end.

Hands are on the ropes around his elbows now, releasing his knees one by one. Frank pulls on Matt’s ankles until he’s laid flat on his front. Then the blows resume, now on his thighs, feet, lower back, shoulders. Matt’s too far gone to hold back on his noises now, every smack releasing a grunt or a gasp from him. Frank’s constantly moving around, never focusing too long in one area. Matt never knows where the next blow is going to come from, and the anticipation leaves him jumpy and flinching at every minor breeze on his skin. Considering how sensitive his skin is, especially now…

“Ya know. Anybody else, they’d be screaming by now. I’m quite impressed.” A hand goes around to grab at his balls, around his hard cock, “But you want more, don’t you? My lovely little masochistic slut.” The hand squeezes, and it’s sweet agony. Matt cries out this time, with feeling.

The hands move away. Instead, arms slip under his chest and knees, roughly rolling him over onto his back. The rough cloth underneath him scrapes against his numerous welts and Matt screams. He’s pulled by his ankles, down, and the rough fabric chafes against his skin like it’s cutting a million tiny little slices into his skin.

The pain is starting to become overwhelming now, but Matt knows it’s still not over. He hopes it’s not over. It’s too much, and yet it’s not enough. He deserves more, more, more.

He’s not disappointed, when it feels like an entire gallon of lava is poured over him. It’s all over his sensitive areas, nipples, belly. Some had splashed onto his cock, drip down his balls. He’s screaming and struggling in earnest now, lacking control over his own body. Tears form at the corner of his eyes. Skin red from head to mid-thigh. Before the wax starts to cool, he feels the flogger come back again.

Matt honestly can’t think of anything after that. He hears himself screaming, begging. _Please, no. No, no please. No. I don’t— Please!!!_ His body is trying to get away, skin on his belly and inner thighs too sensitive for this. Those have always been his worst spots, and Frank knows this. That’s why he saves them for last.

Tears are flowing freely down his face at this point. He’s there but he’s not. His body’s become less than human, a whimpering and struggling _thing_ that’s completely out of his control. _No no please no Frank no please. No. I don’t— I can’t— Frank. Please. PLEASE._

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Too long, and yet not long enough. The blows stop abruptly, and he feels Frank grab his hair and pull him up into a kneeling position. His face is a mess of tears and snot, running over the gag in his mouth. Frank’s hands reach behind his head to unbuckle the straps. The gag and headphones are removed. Hands caress his cheek.

“Shhh, shh. Baby, you were so, so good. So good for me,” The words make him cry even harder. The tenderness a sharp contrast over the earlier treatment. One hand is in his hair, still firm but not painful, tipping his head back. One of Frank’s thumbs is on his chin, pulling his lower lip down. Frank’s sticking a finger into his mouth.

“Suck, baby. That’s it, use your tongue. You’ve been so good. So, so good for me. You deserve a reward, don’t you?”

Matt nods his head vigorously, words having long since escaped him. He wants to be good. He wants to be so good for Frank.

“Open your mouth, baby. Stick your tongue out for me.” And he does, opens his mouth wide. He feels the blunt head of Frank’s cock on his tongue, tasting of salt and smelling of Frank. He swirls his tongue over it a few times. Frank pulls back a little it, and then slowly starts fucking his face in earnest. He’s having difficulty breathing, nose clogged up by snot and Frank’s cock never quite pulling out far enough. All the while, Frank’s whispering sweet nothings about how good he is, how sweet, how beautiful and gorgeous and all Frank’s. His cock, which had softened during the time he was out of it, began to harden again. He’s overwhelmed with Frank. His sheer presence, smell, taste, sounds, hands in his hair and cock inside him.

His face is almost as red as his suit by the time Frank pulls out, allowing Matt to gasp desperately for air. Matt opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, eyes closed. Hears Frank jerk himself off a few more times before hot come spills all over his face, his mouth, his tongue. It’s bitter and salty and all Frank. He can hear him panting a few more breaths.

“Fuck, Red. You’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

Arms lift him up beneath his armpits. His legs are wobbly, but he can stand. Frank walks behind him and begins undoing his bonds, rubbing his hands in between his larger ones when they’re free. He’s led to a chair to the side and made to sit down slowly. The cool plastic feels nice on his still inflamed ass cheeks. His dick twitches.

Frank switches out the rough sheets on the futon with silk sheets, and comes back to guide him to it. They lie with Frank behind him, an arm over his waist and his head tucked beneath Frank’s chin, one of Frank’s legs in between his own. He feels Frank’s hand caress his hair softly as he drifts off to sleep, too exhausted for his still achingly hard cock to bother him too much. Frank’s presence is still overwhelming, on skin and in his hair and on his face and on his tongue. He feels surrounded, secure, safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: More sex probably. And aftercare.  
> Comments please!!!!
> 
> (P.S. Matt has a safeword he just didn't want/wasn't coherent enough to use it.)
> 
> (P.S.S. It's patchouli)
> 
> (P.S.S.S. JK I haven't decided yet.)


End file.
